Sauna Casanova: Like a Kid in a Candy Store

A five-minute walk from Sants Station, in a neighbourhood where gay Barcelona crowds together as if afraid someone might scatter it, you'll find Casanova. A sauna. An institution. A legend that's open while you sleep, while you kiss, while you wonder if you're the only one awake in the city.

I stepped through those sliding doors and stopped. The air hit me – not just the heat, but something else. Density. Anticipation. All around me: body after body. Muscles, tattoos, beards, smooth skin, chest hair sticking together from sweat, smiles that last a second longer than they should, glances that drop to your waist and slowly, deliberately rise again, as if asking: "Well?"

Guys in their twenties and thirties, mostly. That golden age when you still look like you're peaking, but you already know exactly what you want – and how to ask for it.

And that's when I remembered. Childhood. A candy store or a toy shop – that moment when you walk in and don't know which way to turn. You want it all. You want to try everything. And you realise: here, I can be whoever I want. Do whatever I want. Take – or be taken.

Casanova is enormous. Multiple floors, each with its own energy, its own scent, its own secret.

The lower level – that's where it all begins. That's where you undress in front of strangers, where you first see yourself reflected in their eyes, where you first meet someone's gaze that says: "I see you. I want you." Without words.

Then upstairs – the saunas. The mild ones, for conversation and flirting, where you still pretend you care what they do for a living. The hot ones, where sweat pours like you're in hell, and yet you can't leave – because over there, across from you, someone is watching. Holding your gaze. Not looking away.

The steam rooms – here, steam won't let you see anything. You have to rely on your hands. Your ears. Touch. A stranger's body approaching in the dark, finding you, recognising you – and nothing is accidental anymore.

The jacuzzi – that's another story entirely. Here, you sit, you talk, you relax. And here, beneath the water, beneath the surface, things happen that you can't see but can feel. Someone moves closer. A knee touches a knee. Stays there. Doesn't pull away.

The cabins – for those who want privacy, but not complete silence. You hear them. The whole time, you hear them – sighs, moans, whispers, laughter. You know you're surrounded. You know they hear you too.

The darkrooms – for those who don't want to see anything. Only to feel. Hands you don't know whose they are. Mouths finding their way. A body becoming pure sensation, without a face, without a name, without a past.

And the cinema. Yes, there's a cinema too. A screen showing exactly what you and they are doing at that same moment. Voyeurs. Exhibitionists. Those who love being watched while they watch. A circle with no beginning.

What's the best thing about Casanova? No pressure. You can walk through the entire space, for hours, and not speak to anyone – and nobody looks at you strangely. You can just sit in the jacuzzi, drink a beer, watch, and feel. But you can also step into a cabin and not come out until dawn – and that's equally fine. Everyone arrives with their own thirst. Everyone finds their own measure.

Casanova is open 24/7. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That means on a Saturday afternoon you might find the same crowd as on a Friday night. That means on a Tuesday morning, when you're woken by some inexplicable emptiness, you have somewhere to go. That means, while you're reading this, someone is walking in right now. And someone is walking out – different. Lighter. More satisfied. Maybe even a little more lost – but in that lostness, they found something.

Barcelona is a city you don't skip. And Casanova – a place that, if you're gay and have even a shred of curiosity left in you, you absolutely cannot miss. Even if just for a few hours. Even just to see what it feels like to be a kid in a candy store – only now, finally, you have money to buy whatever you want. And the courage to actually do it.

Do you ever really leave? Hardly. Your body leaves. But a part of you – the part you discovered in the dark, in the steam, in the touch of a stranger – stays there. Waiting for you to come back.